(and you learn) | Marvel Comics | Kate Bishop/Bobbi Morse
t: (and you learn)
f: Marvel Comics (Hawkeye)
p: Kate/Bobbi (past Clint/Bobbi)
ch: femslash100 kinks drabble cycle - #10. dirty talk, #11. edging, and #20. queening.
r/wc: PG/754
:s Basically, Kate’s gotten along okay with her life so far by not doing anything that Clint Barton thinks is a good idea. With hindsight, she should’ve realised that his ex-wife fitted into that category too.
n: The final bits of my drabble cycle! Aka, I took the kinks prompts and wrote no kinks, I'm the best one.
Dirty Talk.
“Shouldn’t we have done this when I actually signed the divorce papers?” Clint asks; Natasha leans forward to tip more vodka into his mug.
“You were too busy making godawful life choices,” Bobbi responds. “I thought I’d wait for that to be over, and then I remembered that it’s never over.”
“Word,” Kate agrees. She has a mug of her own; more vodka than orange juice, and a chip in the handle because nothing in Clint’s apartment stays nice for long.
Bobbi is one of the most elegant women Kate’s ever seen; even slumped on Clint’s shitty couch in jeans and a sweater, hair spilling idly down her shoulder, she’s got this class to her that Kate finds simultaneously intimidating and way too attractive. Natasha is similar, but hers comes with an undertone of raw terror that Kate will never shift around her and never tries to.
Kate looks at her vodka and at the two of them and then reflects that she and Clint really are far more similar than either of them ever want to let on.
“You’re still my favourite of my terrible ideas,” Clint tells Bobbi; “well, you, and that time we got stuck in Bangkok-”
“Not in front of the minor we’re plying with booze,” Bobbi cuts in.
“Hey,” Kate says, “not a minor here.”
The look Bobbi gives her is- well, it’s interesting, anyway.
“One of you should tell me that story,” Kate says, chin on hands.
In the end, it’s Natasha who breaks.
Edging.
Basically, Kate’s gotten along okay with her life so far by not doing anything that Clint Barton thinks is a good idea.
With hindsight, she should’ve realised that his ex-wife fitted into that category too.
It’s not that this is a bad idea, exactly; no one’s dead and Kate’s only injuries are the fun sex bruise kind and Clint almost certainly doesn’t know so they aren’t going to have to have the hey, we’re already sharing a codename, how about we don’t also share exes talk, but it’s not exactly the best plan Kate’s ever had either.
“The thing is,” Kate says, post-coital black coffee that doesn’t slough off her tastebuds, clean sheets that are soft against her legs, and maybe Bobbi’s got this adulthood thing cracked, “you’re hella competent and hella smart and hella attractive, so, you know, why aren’t you using all those things to run away?”
Bobbi sighs, rolls her eyes. “First of all, Kate, no one actually says ‘hella’; stop hanging out with… well, everyone you know.”
Kate widens her eyes a little, the way she does when she’s waiting for Clint to drop the other shoe and fuck up her afternoon.
“You’ve spent enough time around all of us by now,” Bobbi tells her, “you can add two and two.”
Kate sips coffee and does the math: “so, I’m some kind of self-destructive adrenaline rush because you guys can’t work anywhere except the edge?”
Bobbi shrugs a bare shoulder. “Pretty much.”
Kate considers it. “Sweet.”
Queening.
“Wow,” Bobbi says, “you need to get your priorities straight.”
She’s possibly got a point; Kate’s broke and doesn’t own a whole lot of things; when it comes to the shit she hangs onto, it should probably be better shit than a stack of sweaty mangled old costumes she’ll never wear again. It’s like carrying around your teenage haircuts; they seemed like a good idea at the time.
Kate shrugs a shoulder. “I bet you’ve got a box somewhere too.”
Bobbi shoots her a look, amused and maybe a little caught, and she stops picking through the box, lifting out Kate’s first experiment with masks. Purple and pointed, it itched and threw her balance off a little, but Kate loved it at the time. It also bears an uncanny resemblance to the mask Bobbi wore as Mockingbird for years.
“Huh,” Bobbi says; Kate always wondered if she knew, she’s never mentioned it.
Kate was sixteen and lost and maybe hero-worshipping a little; she didn’t know then that being a superhero is thirty percent mistakes, twenty percent being in the wrong place at the wrong time, ten percent swearing in panic while your hands and knees and orifices bleed.
Mockingbird and Hawkeye were something else then; gods, maybe, kings and queens of a fairytale she badly wanted to clamber into.
“Don’t be a bitch,” Kate says, and her voice is softer, more begging, than she meant.
Bobbi smiles, sweet, and fixes the mask gently to Kate’s face before she kisses her.
f: Marvel Comics (Hawkeye)
p: Kate/Bobbi (past Clint/Bobbi)
ch: femslash100 kinks drabble cycle - #10. dirty talk, #11. edging, and #20. queening.
r/wc: PG/754
:s Basically, Kate’s gotten along okay with her life so far by not doing anything that Clint Barton thinks is a good idea. With hindsight, she should’ve realised that his ex-wife fitted into that category too.
n: The final bits of my drabble cycle! Aka, I took the kinks prompts and wrote no kinks, I'm the best one.
Dirty Talk.
“Shouldn’t we have done this when I actually signed the divorce papers?” Clint asks; Natasha leans forward to tip more vodka into his mug.
“You were too busy making godawful life choices,” Bobbi responds. “I thought I’d wait for that to be over, and then I remembered that it’s never over.”
“Word,” Kate agrees. She has a mug of her own; more vodka than orange juice, and a chip in the handle because nothing in Clint’s apartment stays nice for long.
Bobbi is one of the most elegant women Kate’s ever seen; even slumped on Clint’s shitty couch in jeans and a sweater, hair spilling idly down her shoulder, she’s got this class to her that Kate finds simultaneously intimidating and way too attractive. Natasha is similar, but hers comes with an undertone of raw terror that Kate will never shift around her and never tries to.
Kate looks at her vodka and at the two of them and then reflects that she and Clint really are far more similar than either of them ever want to let on.
“You’re still my favourite of my terrible ideas,” Clint tells Bobbi; “well, you, and that time we got stuck in Bangkok-”
“Not in front of the minor we’re plying with booze,” Bobbi cuts in.
“Hey,” Kate says, “not a minor here.”
The look Bobbi gives her is- well, it’s interesting, anyway.
“One of you should tell me that story,” Kate says, chin on hands.
In the end, it’s Natasha who breaks.
Edging.
Basically, Kate’s gotten along okay with her life so far by not doing anything that Clint Barton thinks is a good idea.
With hindsight, she should’ve realised that his ex-wife fitted into that category too.
It’s not that this is a bad idea, exactly; no one’s dead and Kate’s only injuries are the fun sex bruise kind and Clint almost certainly doesn’t know so they aren’t going to have to have the hey, we’re already sharing a codename, how about we don’t also share exes talk, but it’s not exactly the best plan Kate’s ever had either.
“The thing is,” Kate says, post-coital black coffee that doesn’t slough off her tastebuds, clean sheets that are soft against her legs, and maybe Bobbi’s got this adulthood thing cracked, “you’re hella competent and hella smart and hella attractive, so, you know, why aren’t you using all those things to run away?”
Bobbi sighs, rolls her eyes. “First of all, Kate, no one actually says ‘hella’; stop hanging out with… well, everyone you know.”
Kate widens her eyes a little, the way she does when she’s waiting for Clint to drop the other shoe and fuck up her afternoon.
“You’ve spent enough time around all of us by now,” Bobbi tells her, “you can add two and two.”
Kate sips coffee and does the math: “so, I’m some kind of self-destructive adrenaline rush because you guys can’t work anywhere except the edge?”
Bobbi shrugs a bare shoulder. “Pretty much.”
Kate considers it. “Sweet.”
Queening.
“Wow,” Bobbi says, “you need to get your priorities straight.”
She’s possibly got a point; Kate’s broke and doesn’t own a whole lot of things; when it comes to the shit she hangs onto, it should probably be better shit than a stack of sweaty mangled old costumes she’ll never wear again. It’s like carrying around your teenage haircuts; they seemed like a good idea at the time.
Kate shrugs a shoulder. “I bet you’ve got a box somewhere too.”
Bobbi shoots her a look, amused and maybe a little caught, and she stops picking through the box, lifting out Kate’s first experiment with masks. Purple and pointed, it itched and threw her balance off a little, but Kate loved it at the time. It also bears an uncanny resemblance to the mask Bobbi wore as Mockingbird for years.
“Huh,” Bobbi says; Kate always wondered if she knew, she’s never mentioned it.
Kate was sixteen and lost and maybe hero-worshipping a little; she didn’t know then that being a superhero is thirty percent mistakes, twenty percent being in the wrong place at the wrong time, ten percent swearing in panic while your hands and knees and orifices bleed.
Mockingbird and Hawkeye were something else then; gods, maybe, kings and queens of a fairytale she badly wanted to clamber into.
“Don’t be a bitch,” Kate says, and her voice is softer, more begging, than she meant.
Bobbi smiles, sweet, and fixes the mask gently to Kate’s face before she kisses her.